Peeling Back the Skin
by Mo Tzu
Summary: When Ichigo Kurosaki is captured in the aftermath of the battle with Ulquiorra, his will is tested to the utmost as Aizen and theEspada pry away his honor, his pride, his self-worth, in order to discern the true source of the shinigami's unusual abilites. Broken and bedraggled, will the remains of the Soul Society be able to save the red-head from a fate far worse than death?
1. Rigor Mortis

A/N: This occurs around episode 270, so watch for spoilers if you haven't finished yet! I'm thinking about incorporating stuff from the manga in later down the line, but I'll warn at the top of the chapter in which I start to do that. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 1: Rigor Mortis

Not for the first time, I crashed into the bone-white pillar with crushing force. My right arm went numb as it splintered against the rock but my grip did not falter, even as the rest of my body sagged downwards like the boughs of an apple tree before harvest. God it hurt so much... And I was tired. So, so tired.

Vision blurring, knees buckling, I came crashing downward upon the shattered surface of the broken pillar.

In the black skies of Las Noches, Ichigo Kurosaki fell.

* * *

Inoue Orihime stood rigidly before the spectacle before her, eyes wide yet unseeing. Beside her Uryu watched stoically, eyes dark, and his hand twitched toward the handle of one of his Quincy knives.

In front of them a distant figure almost indiscernible from the pillar beneath him stooped to pick up the beaten figure below him. The orange-haired shinigami hung limp from his choking grasp, hand clenched around Zangetsu in an inexplicable yet infallible grip despite his unconscious state. It was, thought Uryu distantly, as though the macabre tendrils were already enveloping Ichigo, throwing him into the confines of rigor mortis even before heart had stopped beating.

The quincy grit his teeth. _I have to do something_, he thought desperately. Hardening his faltering will, he nudged Orihime.

"Get ready," he murmured, careful not to draw too much attention before the plan was in motion. "If you distract him with your Soten Keshun, I might be able to get a hit in. If nothing else, we might be able to buy Ichigo some time to recover." Then under his breath: "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you, Orihime-san."

She looked at him sharply. "Uryu. Ichigo's life is in danger. Do you truly think so little of me? Do not presume me helpless." She sighed, her tone softening somewhat. "Besides. It's the least I can do." She forced a smile. "And if we don't save him now, who will save us later?"

Uryu laughed uneasily. "Yes, I suppose that's true."

"Well then." Orihime grimaced, baring her teeth. "I guess it's our turn to do some protecting."

* * *

_El cuarto espada _turned his gaze away, passively scanning the horizon for the dim spiritual pressures he had sensed earlier. _There_. The captive, Inoue Orihime, and another one he thought he recognized from somewhere else stood a ways off, talking amongst themselves. _Weaklings,_ he thought, disgusted by their apparent lack of power. _I'll deal with them quickly_, he thought. _Aizen only wants the shinigami. _He wouldn't be forced to take his time with them. If _they_ died, well, that was their own fault.

"Orihime," he invoked, raising his voice above the night winds. "Quincy. Any interference will be dealt with death. Kurosaki is my only charge." Ichigo still firmly in hand, Ulquiorra sonidoed onto the ceiling, a mere ten feet from the two companions. They flinched slightly. His lip curled.

They stared at each other for a brief pause, and then as though a bomb had dropped Inoue spread her arms, shouting, "Soten Keshun, I reject!"

In a second he was behind the girl, her magic flying harmlessly into the space where he had been only moments earlier. As she turned around her eyes widened. His tail whipped up—but was stopped short of its target by a lightning-blue blade. _Huh. That was irritating_...

Ulquiorra slammed his wing into the offending quincy, knocking him into the pillar adjacent, and in the same motion created a _Lanza de Relampagos_, pointing it at the woman's frantically-beating heart.

And before it had begun, the battle was over. The quincy lay panting to his right, the girl unconscious to his left, and Kurosaki also unconscious in his never-wavering grip. The espada smiled, relaxing back into his original form.

Aizen would be pleased.

* * *

TBC


	2. Nothingness

A/N: Thanks for the reviews and favourites! Here's the second Chapter. Suggestions, etc. are always welcome of course. Also, the POV has been altered somewhat. Ichigo's perspective is going to be in first person now, so I've altered the first chapter to reflect that. So without further ado:

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Chapter 2: Nothingness

First there was nothing.

The figure lay still as a body in a coffin. Breathing, barely. A finger twitched here. An eyelid there. His clothes were torn and bloody, only barely concealing the crippling bruises and lacerations covering his torso. The flow of blood had slowed somewhat in the past hours, and the wounds he had sustained were caked in black blood. He was pale. A ghost, even.

And then there was light.

Blinding, overpowering white light coming from everywhere, nowhere, all at once, an unstoppable force, an insurmountable multitude. And I came tumbling from my slumber. My head shot up from the concrete floor on which I had been lying. I cringed away from the source, unable to fully lift my shackled and broken arm to shield seemingly paper-thin eyelids. I wished the light would go away. So much time in the dark.

And then it died down—not fully absent, but diminished. The door, I realized, still half-caught in my pain-induced haze which had kept me under for so long. A figure. Standing, to my right. My eyes managed to adjust to the slit of light spilling from the doorway. Slowly I took in my surroundings: A small, ten by ten foot concrete enclosure, stained a dark brown colour from a substance I did not care to identify. No windows. Only the door the figure was now standing beside. All, I thought, so different from the meticulously-tidy white interiors of Las Noches. My ears rang as the figure spoke.

"Kurosaki Ichigo."

I cleared my throat, accidentally choking on the dried blood which had accumulated there. I broke down coughing, squeezing my eyes as four of my ribs creaked in protest. Broken, then. "Aizen," I rasped. God, I was so pathetic. Lying on the floor before my most hated enemy broken and bloody, and I could barely speak for the effort it cost me even to clear my throat.

"I suppose you are wondering why I let you live."

Yes. You could have had Ulquiorra kill me up on the roof. You should have. You killed my friends and ruined my home, and then granted me mercy. I deserve to die like the weakling I am.

With a substantial effort, I push the thought aside. The corner of my mouth twitched. "Enough about me. What about you?"

"Me?" In a movement I could barely discern in the dimly-lit room, Aizen shifted.

"I've always believed it's better to keep the focus off of oneself on the first date. It seems a bit rude." I rolled onto my stomach, attempting to get my knees under me. "No more innocents to kill? Filled your—" my chest screamed as I slowly brought myself to my knees. "—your daily quota?"

Aizen laughed cruelly. "Kurosaki Ichigo, you can barely kneel without having to catch your breath. Personally," he continued conversationally, "I would conserve my strength for what is ahead. Soon you will find such bantering is a luxury you will be unable to sustain."

"Yeah, well," I said, "at least I have one thing you don't."

"Oh?" The former captain smiled condescendingly. "And what's that?"

Knowing I would pay for it later, I grinned. "A killer bod and a winning smile."

The door opened again, but this time the light was manageable. Two men, presumably the guards who had been standing outside the doorway, entered. Gesturing for them to continue, Aizen murmured ominously, "I'm sure that will change before long."

I didn't see the needle until it was imbedded in my calf. By then, I was already floating downward through a sea of black, my vision receding as I sunk deeper, deeper...

And then there was nothing.

* * *

Renji Abari had taken his fair share of beatings. He had been through his share of battles and skirmishes, and each time where he had won he had come through knowing that he _deserved_ his victory. But looking out at the carnage before him, he couldn't help but wonder, why was it that he was spared? So many of his friends had perished in the fight, but he had been left behind. It was the first time in the Lieutenant's life that he had ever questioned a victory.

But they had won the battle, right? He guessed that was something. When Aizen had withdrawn prematurely with his top three espada in tow, everyone had been shocked. The Soul Society, diminished and flagging, had been left with no choice but to lick its wounds and prepare for the next cycle.

They hadn't yet been able to muster a full tally of the dead and wounded. Bodies were still being transported from the fake Karakura town and to Squad Four barracks. There were barely enough beds. Medics were collapsing from exhaustion. The sheer scale of the damage was staggering.

Renji himself hadn't sustained too many injuries. After his battle with that creepy espada scientist dude, Renji had been transported by Urahara to the main fighting theatre, where he had been paired off with one of the secondary arrancars. A snapped pinkie, a cut on his shoulder, and a black eye were the worst of the injuries he had been left with. In short, he was one of the lucky ones.

He had tried to aid the Squad Four members in healing the weak, but had soon been turned away on the account that 1) he knew nothing of healing and 2) it was already too crowded to make room for those without injury.

So the red-haired shinigami had wandered away, meandering aimlessly through the barracks and offices lining the streets. Somewhere along the way Byakuya found him and ordered him to rest. Renji didn't know why he had bothered. Nevertheless, he was too tired to argue. Grumbling to himself, he headed toward his rooms.

And that's when Orihime showed up.

* * *

Poor ol' Ichigo. Illegitimi non carborundum!

TBC


	3. The Weather

A/N: The language gets a tad explicit here, so you've been forewarned.

* * *

Chapter 3: The Weather

"Orihime?" He had been so completely, totally absorbed with the destruction rendered upon the Soul Society that he had almost forgotten about the triviality that had begun this whole bloody war.

"Renji." Her face was taught, angled. She appeared worried. In a moment of frustration, Renji wished everyone could just leave him alone. Hadn't he dealt with enough as it was? Couldn't he be left alone to grieve for five whole fucking seconds?

"Shouldn't you be helping with the wounded?" he asked tersely. Inside his conscience berated him for being so cold, but he pushed it aside. "There are people dying out there. You're the one who started this, shouldn't you—" he stopped himself, bewildered. This wasn't like him. "I'm sorry, Orihime," he sighed. "I'm sorry."

But when he raised his head to meet her gaze onece more, she was neither offended nor angry. It was as if she hadn't heard a word of what he'd said. She stared at him with the same half-vapid gaze as before, lips drawn iin a tight line. "It's fine, Renji. Listen," she said, voice growing somewhat urgent (although still drawn with tension), "It's about Ichigo."

Ichigo! He almost face-palmed. That orange-haired runt. Where had he gotten off to? Renji had been so preoccupied with the battle, with taking care of the wounded that he had completely forgotten about one of his closest friends. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen Ichigo in a while—not since Las Noches. "Have you seen him? Is he OK?"

"He's—" she paused, clearing her throat. "I don't know. The last time I saw him Ulquiorra had him. He was wounded, Renji—really badly. I—I don't know what they did with him."

"What—"

"We need to assemble a force," she interrupted, voice suddenly much harder. "If—"

"Renji?" Rangiku appeared a few feet away. In the back of his mind Renji rejoiced in the fact that she had been properly healed. "What's going on?" she asked.

He was about to answer, when Orihime said, quite objectively, as if she were commenting about the weather next Tuesday, "Ichigo has been captured."

* * *

I didn't think I could hold on any longer. I had been trying to hold back, to control myself, to keep silent in the face of absolute agony, but there was only so much a soul could endure. Only so much pain, suffering... Only so much torture...

They had started with my fingernails. Such a simple thing... They would rip one off, pause a second, then the next, then another pause, and then a third—each time waiting, if only for a few seconds—letting the each wound be felt at its fullest before gradually moving on to the next. They were in no hurry.

I was surprised at first. I had expected torture, of course. I had never actually been trained as a Shinigami before, but I was familiar with the process—I was familiar with Aizen—which is why when he sent two low-level lackeys in with knives and wrenches, I almost laughed aloud. Was he afraid? Afraid to witness what he had ordered his men to do? I doubted it. Deep in the recesses of my pain-wracked mind, I knew better than that. This was only the beginning. The bad parts would come later, once I had been broken, or cracked.

And the pain was starting to get to me, too. After they had tired of my fingernails, they had moved on to my fingers. Which was where they were now.

_Snap_. I just managed to hold back a cry of pain. I gasped for air like a fish out of water.

"Oops," one of them sniggered, "Guess that's your sword arm, isn't it? Too bad." _Snap_. Again, I forced myself not to cry out. _It will get worse_, I kept telling myself. _This is nothing, it will get worse_.

But then suddenly, without explanation, they stopped, stepping back hurriedly. I tilted my head in the direction of the door warily, expecting the worse. I blinked twice to get the sweat which had been running down my forehead out of my eyes. My shoulders tensed.

Standing in front of me, outlined by the rusted metal doorframe, adorned in white and black, was Grimmjow Jaggerjaques.

His eyes were dull, and I could tell he was still recovering from the wounds he had suffered in our earlier battle (really not so long ago) by the stiffness in his stature. The laymen to my sides seemed afraid, eyes a bit wider than normal. Nevertheless, they stood tall.

"Espada Jaggerjaques," one of them managed to squeeze out.

Grimmjow ignored them, choosing instead to turn his gaze upon me. I was tied to a chair in the middle of the cell I had found myself in the day before (I say day, but really have no notion of time in this God-forsaken place). I stared back unblinkingly, but couldn't help feel a bit uncomfortable underneath my expressionless mask, helpless as I was. Whatever they wanted, they could do to me. I would resist, of course, but honestly? There wasn't much hope at this point.

"Leave." Grimmjow's blunt command echoed in the room, and as the two men scurried out a deep and disturbing silence fell. He was the first to break it. I simply sat there, hands spread out on the table in front of me, waiting. "So," he said. "I guess you didn't have what it takes after all."

I didn't reply—I had nothing to say. I was exhausted from the hours of pain that had preceded his visit, and wanted nothing more than to just for God's sake rest a while... I closed my eyes. Grimmjow sighed.

"Broken already, Shinigami?" Silence. "Well, I'll tell you one thing: I'll be pretty impressed if you'll be able to sleep through this." That got my attention. In one step he was suddenly in front of me, standing before the table to which my hands had been secured. Unwillingly, almost, I opened my eyelids and stared defiantly up. I knew something was coming. The least I could do was meet it head on.

Grimmjow hesitated as he reached for my forearm, and I resisted the impulse to draw back in fear. _I am not afraid. I am not afraid_. Our eyes met—his teal ones with my brown, and slowly, almost apologetically, the sixth Espada said, "I'm under orders."

And then the world splintered, shattering into millions of tiny fragments that, bit by bit, tore into my mind and rendered me useless to this world.

* * *

TBC


End file.
